What Dreams May Come
by ineffablepenguin
Summary: Wherein Crowley finds a measure of peace. {Part 3 of my Ineffable Husbands series, from Crowley's perspective}


Crowley lay on his back with his eyes closed, pretending to sleep, but he was actually just enjoying the feel of Aziraphale's lap under his head.

They had risen late and shared an excellent brunch at a little French restaurant downtown, then by unspoken agreement retreated to the bookshop again. They were still reluctant to share each other's company with others; both needed space from the world to process this new turn their lives had taken. The little handwritten "Beg Pardon, We're CLOSED" sign had hung on the front door for the last five days, and the shop remained firmly locked.

They currently were relaxing in the bedroom, where they had spent a lot of their time lately in one form or another. Aziraphale was sitting on the bed propped up against the headboard reading, and Crowley lay (supposedly) napping across his legs with his arms folded. One of his vibrantly green ferns sat on the bedside table in a small decorative pot that Aziraphale had chosen.

If someone had ever told Crowley that he would owe true happiness to the advent of the Apocalypse, he would have thought they were barking mad.

He snuck a glance up at Aziraphale through his eyelashes. The angel wore no vest or coat, and the top two buttons of his shirt were undone. He sat engrossed in one of his books, eyes intent as he absorbed some new fictional something or other. Those ridiculous little reading glasses that he certainly did NOT need were perched on his nose, but had slipped down towards the very edge as Aziraphale apparently forgot to pay attention to them. Crowley suppressed a smile, feeling overwhelming affection swell within him like a balloon.

He had no idea how he had survived thousands of years without this. Demons were not supposed to feel giddy (about anything other than a bad job well done), but these days Crowley cared so very little for _supposed to_. He had never been big on rules to begin with; rebellion was second nature to him. But they were in uncharted space now, so far beyond the veil that there was no precedent at all. He supposed he should have felt alarmed by that, but all he felt was a resolve to savor this, savor him, with the same gusto that he did everything else on this planet.

He lay there enjoying the kind of quiet contentment that had previously touched his life only in brief flashes.

He would never in a thousand years admit it to Aziraphale, but for the last few nights he had barely slept at all for fear that he would wake up and find all of this a dream. The events of that one terrible day had also cropped up, featuring in his nightmares as he watched flames consume the bookshop and felt that yawning void of emptiness open up inside him. It had replaced the old nightmare, which had also involved fire and screaming but considerably fewer books. At least now, when he woke in a sweat, Aziraphale was there to hold him close and chase the other demons away.

Unwilling to pretend any longer, he opened his eyes and looked up at the angel.

Six thousand years had barely dimmed the wonder he felt whenever he looked at Aziraphale. No one else on earth (or above it or below it) had that same gentle presence. Aziraphale walked around radiating kindness the way fire gave off warmth, and like a moth drawn to a flame Crowley couldn't look away. From the moment he had met him in the garden, the moment the absurd creature had guiltily confessed to giving away his sword against all orders and common sense, Crowley had been entranced.

It had made for a very depressing few millennia. Unable to say anything yet unable to tear himself away, he had stumbled along in a kind of rotten purgatory of his own making. Angels could not love demons, and that was that- no exceptions. There was no redemption forthcoming for him, no happy endings. That inviolate truth should have been enough to keep him grounded, but somehow he kept finding himself circling back to Aziraphale over and over again. No matter how far he traveled, how much he drank or or how fast he drove, he couldn't seem to escape the one simple truth that mattered: When Aziraphale smiled at him, he felt all the pieces of himself that had shattered in the Fall come together. He felt...whole.

No, definitely best not to mention any of that.

The angel in question suddenly noticed Crowley's eyes on him and lowered his book, his face breaking into that beatific smile. "Well hello there."

Ugh. So cute it was disgusting. It put such a sweet, sharp ache in him that sometimes he could barely stand it.

He reached up and brushed a thumb over Aziraphale's lips, remembering the night before. And the night before that.

"Hello yourself," he said, still looking at his mouth. This part of things had been a very unexpected yet exhilarating development. Truth be told, Crowley had never given much thought to sex at all. He'd fielded his share of advances over the years, but not one of them had ever held the slightest interest to him. He'd thought that had something to do with his demonic nature, but now it had become glaringly obvious that it was because his interest had already been captured. That night five days ago had seen something vast and previously hidden unfurl within him like a flower.

"Are you happy?" he asked. It was suddenly vitally important to know. "With me here?"

Aziraphale's eyes widened, looking almost scandalized. "Of course I am! I asked you to be here, remember?" He set down his book, carefully marking his page, and shifted to better see Crowley's face. "I told you before, I've loved you since the beginning. It just took me a little- a lot longer to be ready. I'm so very sorry for that."

He paused, brow creasing in sudden concern. "Are _you_ happy here? I know it must be strange after having your own place for so long."

Crowley pursed his lips in mock thought. He forced his face into a serious expression as he sat up and looked directly at Aziraphale. "Well, there is one thing I've been meaning to talk to you about."

"Oh?" The angel definitely looked worried now.

"Yes. What," Crowley demanded, "in the name of everything unholy, is this?" He held up one of the tartan pillows on the bed between thumb and forefinger. It was small, round, tufted, and edged in little tassels. It was one of about six or seven just like it, not counting the larger pillows with matching cases.

Aziraphale stared at it with a completely nonplussed expression on his face. "A...pillow? Beds are supposed to have pillows!"

"Beds are supposed to have _a_ pillow, not enough to make an entire bloody fort. And THIS thing is not a pillow, I don't even know what to call this."

"I saw these exact ones in an advertisement," Aziraphale insisted. "It was described as a pillow."

"...They were supposed to be decorative," he added, looking slightly crestfallen.

Crowley couldn't help it; he burst out laughing. He pulled the indignant Aziraphale into his arms and kissed him, and after a second Aziraphale kissed him back with surprising hunger. Pushing Crowley against the headboard, he climbed onto his lap and straddled him, framing his face between both hands as he kissed him more deeply. Crowley closed his eyes and lost himself in it. Hells, but he would never get tired of this. The feel of Aziraphale's lips on his and the comfortable smell of him, of paper and cologne and some sort of spicy aftershave. He tasted like home.

Aziraphale beamed down at him, arms around his neck, and for a moment Crowley forgot how to breathe.

"So," Aziraphale said, cheeks flushed. "You are happy here, then?"

Crowley took his hand and kissed the palm, then the inside of his wrist. He shrugged. "Well. You know, on a good day. Except for the pillows." He laid his face against the angel's chest and sighed. "I think I can get past that, though."

He had spent so many years believing that God had no mercy to spare for him, but as he twined his arms around his angel it occurred to him that maybe his prayers had not gone unheard after all.

.

.

_[AUTHOR'S NOTE]_

_I want to note that the title is specifically a reference to the Eric Whitacre choral music:_

_"What dreams may come, both dark and deep,_

_Of flying wings and soaring leap_

_As I surrender unto sleep."_


End file.
